Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
JC set his wineglass down and swiveled to face me. The fashionable pendant light over the island cast his cheekbones and bearded jaw in stark relief and peppered his reddish hair with streaks of gold. He looked like a pirate. Strong, brave, and slightly dangerous. I’d thought he was out of my league from day one. He was accomplished, smart, driven. I couldn’t understand why he wanted me…or what had made him follow me here. I still didn’t.
“I have no advice to give. Just don’t be like me, Nol. Be you. Only…perhaps be kinder to yourself. Less changing, more accepting, eh?”
I nodded as though I knew exactly what he meant. I wasn’t sure I did, and I wasn’t in the right mood for any further philosophical musings.
I cranked up a Rihanna song to drown out my thoughts as I veered my truck along the winding road leading to the Black Horse Inn. Vin had said he was meeting Ronnie and some of their old buddies at the adjacent bar, and there was no reason for me not to join them. In fact, it was weird not to check in with everyone. They were my friends too, and they knew Vinnie and I were cool.
Quit overthinking. Quit overthinking.
I parked in the half-empty lot near a copse of pine trees and did a double take at the petite brunet herding a group of wobbly-looking grown-ass men into a Suburban.
“Andie?”
“Oh, thank God! Nolan, you’re an angel. I need help wrangling these idiots home.” She gestured toward her husband, Kirby, Ronnie, Vinnie, Jim Ashton, Dirk Cafferty, and Emmett Michaels—pillars of society in their mid-to-late thirties who’d seemingly reverted to frat boys. “I can fit everyone in, but it’s going to take some coordination.”
That was an understatement. I snorted affectionately at the six drunk morons butchering the lyrics to Tom Petty’s “American Girl” as they swayed like palm trees in a hurricane.
“How ’bout if we split the work? I’ll take half of them home, you take the others.”
Andie heaved a sigh. “Jim, Dirk, and Emmett live on the same street. I have the bigger truck, so I’ll take that crew if you don’t mind taking your brother and Vin.”
“No problem.” I clapped my hands decisively and marched over to the delinquents. “Hey, there. Looks like I missed a party. You ready to go home?”
“Nolan, Nolan, Nolan!” They chanted my name and offered drunken high fives in greeting.
Kirby Williams wrapped an arm around my shoulder in an awkward side hug. “Man, this guy is a cool guy. I like this guy.”
“Hands off. I like him more,” Vinnie asserted, pushing forward like a running back making a play for a touchdown. “Look at that face. He’s like…hot or somefin.”
They all stared at me intently as if trying to decide how I measured on a hot meter. It was comically ridiculous, but it was also a tad alarming. Then again, I doubted anyone would remember much in the morning.
“Gee, thanks, Vin. Let’s get you guys home.” I tugged at Ronnie’s elbow. “Ready?”
My brother nodded. “Yeah, yeah. But for the record, I’m not drunk. Nowhere near as bad as these guys.”
Huh. He seemed fairly lucid.
“Good to know. Is Mary-Kate at Mom’s?”
“Yeah, so you might as well drop Vin off first,” Ronnie said, reaching for the passenger side door handle.
“No way. Shotgun!” Vinnie raised his hand and stomped toward a white SUV that in no way resembled my ride.
“Wrong truck. This one, Vin.”
I made sure Andie had her charges settled and was safely on her way before getting behind the wheel, unsurprised to find Vinnie in the passenger seat.
“I like this song. Who is it?” He squinted at my radio and fiddled with the volume. “Iz Ed Sherman?”
“Close enough.”
“I like it. Do you like it?”
“Sure, Vin.” I stole a covert glance at my brother in my rearview mirror who snickered as if amused by the whole situation. He folded his arms, gaze fixed out the window, leaving me to deal with an air guitar-playing exuberant passenger.
“I wish I learned how to play a six-string. I own one. It’s in my house in LA. I should take lessons. I might be good at it. Check my technique.” Vinnie thrashed his head back and forth, fingers flying over a pretend fretboard.
“You have a house in LA?” I asked, furrowing my brow.
“Yeah, at the beach. Don’t ask which one. I forget. I haven’t been there in ages. I sold my Seattle place. The buyer wants my furniture but he can’t have my gee-tar. Oh, hell…wait up. I fuckin’ love this song. Ronnie, drumsticks ready!”
Ronnie came to life, sitting forward in anticipation as Vinnie adjusted the volume on Phil Collins’s “In the Air Tonight” to earsplitting levels. They sang at the top of their lungs, off-key, off pitch, yet somehow endearing.
This was the way it always used to be. The three of us together—me, the responsible one, my brother, the lighthearted, easygoing guy, and Vinnie…the life of the party. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine us the way we were before the real world tore us apart and forced us to make big decisions and deal with heady shit like death, addiction, and stardom.